by Blake Banner
The receptionist gave me a bright sparkling smile out of big, baby blue eyes, but before she could charm me with her Tinkerbell voice I said, “I’m late. I’m here to see Ahmed Musa. Franklin, like the President. That’s me. I’m late. What can I do? This is L.A. Nothing works like it’s supposed to. I can’t come back, I godda see him now.”
She buzzed him and just for fun I kept talking over her while she tried to tell him I was there. She wasn’t fazed. She hung up and kept right on smiling as she pointed to a door and said, “Mr Musa is expecting you, Mr. Franklin. It’s that door over there. You’ll see his name on it.”
I crossed reception, past a couple of potted palms, and came to a walnut door with an engraved brass plaque on it that bore the name Ahmed Musa. It opened before I could knock and I stood looking at a tall, willowy man in an expensive beige suit that looked like it had been really well tailored for somebody else. His hair was well cut and he had a carefully trimmed beard and moustache. Her smiled at me from intelligent, yellow eyes and held out his hand.
“Mr. Franklin.”
I spread my hands, then shook his. “I’m late.” I said. “I’m never late, but today I’m late. Nothing works in L.A. The Golden State, but nothing works.”
“Please, don’t worry, come in and make yourself at home. May I offer you a drink?”
I checked my watch as I stepped in. “I haven’t had a good martini in a week. I wouldn’t say no to a good martini. If you can produce a good martini.”
He gave a deep, comfortable chortle. “You are in luck. I make a passable martini, though I say so myself.”
I had a look around while he mixed the drinks. It was expensively unremarkable. “May I look out of your window? Do you mind? That’s one hell of a view you got there.”
I went and stood with one hand on the window frame and the other in my pocket, looking down. We were on the top floor, so the view was spectacular. “It’s not New York, but it’s pretty good.”
I went and looked at the view from the other end of the window. “This is a view. You know? We build’em taller, but most of the time you got another one in front of you. So no matter how fuckin’ high you go, you still got no view. You got a view.”
He laughed but didn’t say anything. I studied the room again. He had the stock leather furniture, the oak bookcases, the credenza and the oversized oak desk. There were no Picassos on the wall.
He turned to face me with two martinis in his hands. “Please,” he said, “take a seat, enjoy your drink, relax and tell me how you think we can help you.”
I moved back across the room, took the drink and sat.
As I sipped he said, “I hope it’s up to your New York standards.”
It was, but I made a slightly disappointed face. “It’s good. No, it’s good.”
He sipped his own and calibrated me with his eyes. “You are seeking to make a substantial investment, Mr. Franklin.”
I nodded, put my glass down and sat back in my chair. “I represent a number of men, from New York and New Jersey—and some other places.” I studied his face to see if he was going to react. All he did was blink. He had registered that I represented the Mafia, and now he was going to attribute any oddness in my questions or my behaviour to the fact that the Mafia were seeking to whitewash money through his firm. I just hoped they weren’t already doing that.
I went on, “Initially we are looking to make an investment of about twenty million. If things work out, we might invest more in the future.”
He frowned. “That is a very sizeable sum of money. What do you expect from us in return for that kind of investment, Mr. Franklin?”
I smiled at him all over one side of my face. “We’re looking to get into the movie industry, Mr. Musa. But we’re looking forward, you know what I’m sayin’? We’re askin’ questions about where the industry’s going. And we have the impression…” I paused and nodded a lot, like I thought I’d chosen a really good word. “We have the impression that the role of cinema and TV, and computers, is going to be a lot more significant in coming years.”
I watched him a moment. He raised his eyebrows to answer and I interrupted. “You know what? I look at my kids and I don’t see kids anymore. What I see is creatures who are being programmed. Creatures who are being taught how to behave, not by their mom or their dad, or their grandparents, or, God forbid! The padre, like we were, but by role models who don’t even exist. And I look out there…” I pointed at the window. “And I see nine million sheep, goin’ around buyin’ what they’re told to buy, going on holiday where they’re told to go on holiday, bein’ happy, sad, emotional, cool, when and where and how they are told to—by the TV. Jesus!” I looked around like there were people watching me. “They’re even deciding whether to fuck guys or women, based on what the TV is telling them!”
We sat staring at each other for a long moment. He was waiting for a cue. I gave it to him. I said, “I see that, and I think, ‘I want a piece of that goddamn action!’”
He smiled and nodded. “There is a lot of truth in what you say, and I think you are very wise to want to get in on the ground floor. This is certainly the future.”
“You better believe it, pal. So we were thinking we want to make a movie.”
He looked surprised and his eyebrows shot up. “You want to make a movie?”
I looked around the room, like I was surprised. “There’s an echo!” I laughed loudly and he laughed back, tolerantly.
When we’d finished laughing he said, “Have you a story, a manuscript, something… Or do you just want to invest in a movie?”
“No. We got a manuscript. See, we don’t wanna make just any old movie.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t?”
“No. See, we have a theory. We believe that we can…” I looked around. “Can I speak in confidence? Are you recording this conversation?”
He smiled in a way you could only describe as indulgent. “Yes, of course you can, and no, we are not recording this conversation, Mr. Franklin.”
“We believe that with movies and TV shows, if you make them right, with the advice of psychologists, on purpose, you can manipulate the thinking and the behaviour of the public at large. Now, that has gotta be useful, not just for marketing, right? But also for getting the right president elected, getting approval for some kind of policy, legislation, all kinds a stuff.”
He crossed one long leg over another and smiled at it like it was a surprisingly nice leg. “Well, that’s a pretty tall order, Mr. Franklin…”
“I know. But the consortium believe it’s worth spending a few bucks on R and D, and they figure your company is the company to carry out that R and D. What do you think?”
He didn’t look at me. Now he frowned at his leg, like it had let him down after he thought it was so nice. “What is this film you want to make?”
I made an elaborate shrug, then spread my hands. “Doesn’t have to be a movie. Could be a TV series. Maybe that would be better. But the idea is, we have a group of people, facing problems in life, just like real people, but these characters are designed, by psychologists, to be role models, targeted at different demographic groups, you follow me? And the patterns of behaviour and opinions to those demographic groups will be manipulated through those role models. Then you monitor how those groups respond. Am I explaining this right? You understand me?”
“Yes, you are explaining it admirably…”
“But, we would need psychologists from Harvard, or Stanford—the best—supervising the program and helping design it. You see what I’m saying? I mean, would this be in line with what you do? I think it would be perfect for your company.”
He stared at me for a long moment while I waited for him to answer. Finally he seemed to snap out of a trance and said, “Mr. Franklin, this is a very unusual proposal...”
“It’s also a very unusual sum of money I’m offering you. But hey, if I made a mistake, I can go elsewhere.”
He raised a hand and s
hook his head. “I am not saying that, at all, and I am flattered that you have chosen us. But what I am saying is that I will need to discuss this in some depth with my partners.”
I narrowed my eyes and smiled with what I hoped looked like shrewd cunning. “I’m getting the feeling that I am treading on somebody’s toes…”
He shook his head again. “No, no. Not exactly. What you are proposing is not a million miles from research that has been proposed… um… elsewhere…”
“Hey! If it’s more money you need we can talk about that. All we are saying is we want to get in there before the Chinese or the fuckin’ Russians. You hear what I’m saying? You gotta keep ahead of the game. Am I right? We got Hollywood, we got the best damn TV networks in the world. We can use this kind of research. It’d be a damn shame if some fuckin’ foreign power beat us to the punch. You understand me?”
He sighed and nodded. “I understand you better than you realize, but I can’t say any more at this stage. Look, is there a number where I can reach you?”
“Wait a minute…” I shrugged, spread my hands and looked around again, like there was an invisible audience there watching us. “What is this? ‘Don’t call us, we’ll call you?’ You fobbing me off?”
“No, no! Not at all! I simply need to consult with my partners. Yours is a very unusual proposal and, frankly, we need to discuss it in depth and examine its implications. I can’t make a decision without them.”
“I’m trying to give you money here.”
“And I am very grateful, but I still need to…”
“Listen to me, pal…” I pointed at him. “The people I represent don’t like to be told ‘no’, and they don’t like to be given the run around. Don’t upset me. You talk to your partners, and I wanna hear from you by tomorrow afternoon. If I don’t hear from you I’m gonna call you!”
His face hardened, but I could tell he was worried. “Mr. Franklin, there is nothing to be gained from threats. Yours is a very interesting proposal and all I am saying is that we need to discuss it and I will, definitely, be in touch very shortly to arrange a meeting with my other partners.”
I pointed at him again. “Do. I’ll be waiting for your call. Time is money. Don’t make me wait.”
I gave him my number, he showed me out to the elevator and I made my way back to the lobby, scratching my chin and wondering if I had over done the Goodfellas act. Maybe I had, maybe I hadn’t. Maybe I didn’t give a damn. One way or another I was certain I had piqued his curiosity, and he’d be calling his pals for a meeting right about now. Maybe he’d be calling Fenninger too.
Outside the building I crossed the road to the parking lot and climbed into the Zombie. I grabbed my laptop from the back seat and switched it on. Then I opened the listening device and heard Ahmed Musa’s voice. He sounded confused.
“Aaron, listen, get back to me as soon as you get this, will you? Something very odd has just happened. We need to discuss it, soon.”
I smiled. “You sure do,” I said. “As soon as possible.”
Five
I called Ted Wallace from the car.
“Yeah.”
“You at the house or at your office?”
“I took over at the house just after I spoke to you.”
“Has he left yet?”
“Nope. He’s still in there.”
“If he comes out, follow him. I want to know three things: where he goes, what vehicle he uses and whether he rolls down the window. You got that?”
There was a pause. “Where he goes, what vehicle he uses and… if he rolls down the window?”
“And contact me as soon as he makes a move.”
“…Roger that.”
With nothing left to do but wait I drove back to the parking structure on Jefferson Boulevard, changed back into my dirty jeans and sweatshirt, locked up the Zombie and returned to the Silverado with my laptop. Next time I used the Zombie, it would be to carry out the execution. As I thought about that, I remembered Ted Wallace telling me that the only interesting thing that had happened was that Fenninger’s wife and kids had walked down the road, hand in hand, to visit a neighbor. Aaron Fenninger, Epsilon, was a man like any other, a human being, with a wife and kids, a family, and I was planning to assassinate him—murder him—deprive his wife and kids of husband and father with the same dispassionate, cold-blooded lack of compassion that I despised in Omega. It was an ugly, nauseating feeling.
But if he lived, my family died. And they died not because they were guilty of any crime, but simply because they were my weak spot, and Omega knew it. But, on the other hand, if he and his cabal died, seven and a half billion other people got a chance: a chance not just to live, but to be whole, to be free. To be human. Omega had named the game. I was just playing it, the only way I knew how.
I climbed into the truck and slammed the door. It made a dark echo that reverberated deep into the shadows of the parking garage. For a moment it transported me back, over a decade. It was just before my first kill. After all the drilling and the training, and the endless repetition, it was now. Now, I was going to kill somebody. I had felt sick, my head had been thrumming, a mortar had just gone off. The guys were impassive. The Brits see emotion as an impediment to efficiency. It’s something you hang up with your street clothes before you put your uniform on. The mortar had exploded, maybe fifteen yards away, and somebody, it might have been Bat Hayes, had said, “Gawd bli’me, Jones! You been at them beans again?” Everybody had laughed, but I had felt sick, knowing what was coming, what I was going to do. Then the big Kiwi, Sergeant Bradley, had said, “All right, lads, we all want to go home, don’t we? So let’s go an’ kill these buggers.”
And we had gone in, and we had killed them. All of them.
So that’s what you do when you want to go home. You go in, and you kill the buggers.
I drove nice and steady through the Los Angeles sunshine back to Sunset Boulevard, and parked in the Jack in the Box parking lot. There I settled to listen to whatever the bugs picked up, and to wait for Fenninger to show.
The software Gantrie had given me with the bugs enabled the laptop to act as a cell phone and receive calls from the bugs, which were voice activated. Once the bugs heard somebody start talking, they instantly dialed my laptop and started to record whatever was being said. That recording was then automatically saved into a file on the hard drive, designated by an ID number, a time and a date.
Fenninger’s bugs had not dialed in yet, but there was already a number of files saved from Intelligent Imaging Consultants. The first was within a minute of my having left and it was the call Musa had made to Fenninger. The next was to Elena Sanchez.
“Elena, listen, I have just had a very strange visit from a man who claims to represent interests in New York.” There was a brief pause, then, “Well, that’s the thing, he implied very heavily that his principals were Mafia. Now, unless there has been a change of policy somewhere along the line and I didn’t get the memo, we should not be doing business with the Mafia and they know that. Is this a case of the left hand not knowing what the right hand… I agree. This is something we need to discuss in person and not over the phone.”
There was another silence, then he sighed. “There was something distinctly odd about him, but then he was from New York!” He laughed. “I got the impression he wasn’t bluffing, he definitely was linked with the Mafia. I can’t say exactly why, but he felt… dangerous. Do you know what I mean? Anyway, Elena, let’s cut this short and I’ll see you at, say, three? I’ll call the others.”
Two more calls followed, to Izamu Suzuki and Erick Dunbar. He repeated pretty much what he’d said to Elena, but to Dunbar he said, “What do you suggest I do with regard to Aaron? Should I inform him?” There was a pause and when he spoke again he sounded irritated. “Yes, I know he’s just a consultant, Erick, but we both also know he is a damn sight more than that in reality. If the New York Mob is trying to muscle in on us it means something has gone arse over tits up the line
and he needs to know about it.”
I smiled at the expression. In my mind’s eye I could see Dunbar scratching his head. I laughed out loud when Musa said, “For God’s sake! It’s an English expression, Erick! It means… well just imagine it and you’ll get the idea! Yes, arse is ass and tits are tits… Yes, awry will do. Can we get back on topic now?”
He was quiet again for a while, then took a deep breath. “OK, I take your point. I’ll have a private meeting with him and see what he says. Meanwhile we need to talk this through and decide what to do. I’ve arranged to meet the others here at three.”
Shortly after that, my pay as you go rang. It was Ted.
“He’s on the move. I’m following him. He’s turning east onto the highway. You want me to stay with him?”
“Yes. He’s probably headed for his office on Sunset Boulevard. If he stops there, just turn around and go back. Has he got his window open?”
“Yup. Why didn’t he take the 101, through Cornell? He’d save ten minutes.”
“He’s a writer. He likes the sea.”
I heard the shrug in his voice. “OK.”
Fifty minutes later he pulled up in front of his office and I watched Ted Wallace cruise past in his Buick. My phone rang.
“He’s at the office. I’m going back to the house.”
“OK. I’ll talk to you later.”
Ten minutes after that, Fenninger’s bugs kicked in and I was surprised to hear Musa with him in the office. I realized it was the first time I’d heard Fenninger’s voice. It didn’t sound like the voice of one of the most powerful men in the world. It sounded thin and lightweight. He told somebody to bring coffee, then his voice got louder. I figured he’d sat at the coffee table.